


Our Stars, Misaligned

by CherubHope



Category: Original Work
Genre: Collection of short stories, Domestic, Eventual Smut, Found Family, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Midlife Crisis, Parenthood, Reunited lovers, Yearning, non-linear story telling, old flame, past drug abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:14:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27291778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CherubHope/pseuds/CherubHope
Summary: Their paths crossed, once, years ago. They learned, they loved, they lost, and they moved on. Faustus didn’t expect he’s ever see Jerric again.But life is funny that way, forcing them together again at his most ragged and worn for three long winter months.-A series of shorts, touching upon the romance between Faustus Valentine and Jerric Verdandi; of how they first came together and how they come together again after twenty odd years.
Relationships: Faustus Valentine/Jerric Verdandi
Kudos: 4





	Our Stars, Misaligned

The lights flare overhead, white and pink, illuminating the belly of the auditorium and the dots of faces caught in open mouthed screaming. The roar of applause and the thrum of the ending notes of the song ring in his ears, deafening and familiar. Thrill races through his veins and drives his heart to pound, ba-thump thump thump, against his ribs, in tune with the shrill of the last guitar riff.

He grasps the mic close to his mouth like he means to kiss it.

“Thank you Glacier’s Peak!” He screams. The crowd, a wash of grey, screams back. “I love you all, thank you, thank you!”

Sweat rolls down his brow and drips into his eyes. His eyes sting, and he yells out his love to the crowd again, yells his thanks so loud his strained vocal cords burn raw from it, and he swears his eyes sting only from the sweat.

From the side, the stage manager signals to someone unseen, and darkness falls in a rush. Behind him, his bandmates shuffle away from their instruments with a chorus of tired moans. He still lingers at the mic stand, grinning hard towards a crowd he can no longer see, his fingers tight around the body of the microphone. 

Just a moment longer, he tells himself. He wants to impress the groove of the microphone into his skin and cry of the crowd into his ear drums for as long as he can.

A hand slaps his shoulder in passing. He looks over to the towering form of Oliver fiddling with the strap to his guitar, a gentle yet unyielding smile on his face. The show is over, that smile says, time to roll out.

He grimaces in understanding and squeezes the microphone, a parting embrace. His hands come away, irritated red and sticky with sweat. He stuffs them in the damp pockets of his jeans to hide the way the shake that rattles through him.

Oliver slides his hand across his back and begins to lead him away. “You did good out there, Faustus.”

“Heh, thanks, Oliver. I mean, we all did. Not just me.” Faustus chances a look behind his shoulder. The stage, so vibrant and alive only moments before, looks disturbingly quiet, the microphone and drum set and bass standing a silent sentry. “No use in holding back on the last of our goodbye shows. I don’t want us to be forgotten that fast, you know.”

“I don’t think anyone could forget you.” Oliver squeezes him closer to his side. “But even if they did, well, it’s not really our problem anymore, huh?”

The words settle heavy and uneasy in his stomach, sinking like large rocks into soft mud. That he doesn’t even have the energy to argue against Oliver and maybe even plead that it doesn’t have to be their last show, that they still have a lot of life left in them, hits him even harder.

But looking into Oliver’s face, he can see it. There’s no more time for arguments.

Shadows darken Oliver’s eyes and the creases that line his face. Deep, dragging tiredness shows in the way he moves to rub his playing wrist to each strangled yawn that rips out of him. Each gray hair that pops out of his messy bun is a testament to eight years they’ve all spent together, each wince another impatient signal that his Oliver is damn ready to put both guitar and body for a hard-earned rest.

It still doesn’t make it hurt any less that all Faustus can do is cling to Oliver and take his time on the walk back to the dressing room. At least Oliver lets him do it.

The other two members are already on the lumpy couch when they finally make their way in. Cherry’s grin beams up at them, bright despite the exhaustion that dulls their usually laughing eyes. Alin doesn’t even look at them, his head between his knees and hands tangled in his messy brown locks. Cherry gives Alin a sour grimace when he says nothing for a beat and shoves his shoulder.

An annoyed growl answers them. For their trouble, Alin sinks his head down ever further and flips them a half-hearted middle finger. Undeterred, Cherry bothers Alin again, this time with a gentler nudge. “What, no explosion, no yelling? C’mon, where’s that spunk, Ali?”

“Dunno. Maybe I left it on the stage.” Alin grunts but he does look up with a scowl. His eyes fall on Faustus and narrow with poorly concealed irritation before rolling over to look at Oliver. “Is he still being a sulking pissant, Oliver?”

Before Faustus can rise to the challenge, Oliver pats his shoulder forcefully enough to send him stumbling forward. “It’s okay that he’s sad, Alin. He’s entitled to some sulking.”

“Some?!” Alin scoffs out a bitter laugh. “He’s done nothing BUT sulk and bitch at us at the most inconsequential shit this entire tour. He’s had enough time to come to terms with this.”

“Don’t make it sound like it’s such an easy thing to do.” Faustus sneers, his fingernails biting into his palm when he clenches both hands. “What should I do then, Alin? Go run out to the nearest bar and have Cherry drag my soggy ass back to the hotel with snot running down my face?”

Sparks ignite between them and that, too, is a familiar part of the performing nights. Alin is on his feet in an instant before Cherry can stop him, his shirt snapped tight across his broad shoulders and veins bulging in his drawn fists. Faustus almost embraces the brewing fight between them when the anger that flares in Alin’s eyes cools just as quickly as it rose. 

His shoulders sag, and then so does the rest of his body when he collapses back on the couch. Alin rubs his hands hard down his face and releases a long sigh.

“Dude I dunno, maybe, but I can’t do this with you right now.” 

Cherry lays a single hand on Alin’s knee and the two share a sad smile before Cherry rises and approaches Faustus with an unusually stern expression. Faustus tenses and looks away, unwilling to look in the disappointment evident there. Cherry doesn’t let him avoid them for long and jerks his face back towards them.

Up close, Faustus can’t help but notice that even in Cherry’s eyebrows, there are gray hairs that spring up amongst the black ones. 

“Uh-uh, you’re not gonna look away from me this time, Faustus Valentine.” Cherry drops their hands to his arms, their fingers curling into the sleeves of his shirt. “You - or you, don’t you think you’re excluded from this, Ali,” Alin sticks out his tongue at them. “Are not gonna stand here and make this night harder than it is. Is this really how you want us to end this? With a stupid fight?”

Faustus meets Cherry’s eyes. They’re probing his expression, searching desperately for something he usually can’t offer them. He forces a smile on his face anyway and hopes they won’t bother him for something more truthful. “Would it be us if Alin and I didn’t nearly get into a fist fight?”

They grimace and clench their fingers into his arms harder before releasing him with a sad huff. It’s not the answer they’re looking for and it’s obvious that, at least for the moment, Cherry’s not willing to goad him into saying something half-way honest.

“Well this isn’t how I want this night to go so if you can put a lid on it, that would be lovely.” Faustus frowns at the defeated note in Cherry’s voice. He hesitates, shakes his head, then reaches out, catching their callused hand in his.

“...Listen, I’m,” Whatever courage building in him dies when Cherry looks back at him, their gaze piercing. “Look, I won’t fight with Alin, I promise. We should end tonight on a good note, yeah?”

Cherry presses their full lips into a harsh line, then nods. “That’s what I was hoping for. I do have a stash of green from Pasture Hill that I’ve saving for something special.”

“What?” Alin barks out from the couch. “You’ve been holding out on us? Cherry what the fuck?”

They start puttering around the room, only answering Alin with a non-committal hum, and busy themself by gathering up the odds and ends of theirs that somehow always make their way across a room once they open their bag. Oliver helps them, picking up bits of candy wrappers and empty water bottles.

When it becomes obvious that Cherry won’t be answering him, Alin stops his sputtering and sits back with arms crossed and bottom lip jutted out. Faustus chuckles at the sight and eases himself next to Alin.

“We’re all still pretty damn immature sometimes, aren’t we?” Faustus says without looking at Alin.

Alin grunts. “Yeah, what a messy group of 40 something year olds we turned out to be.”

“Ouch, no, don’t say that,” Faustus flops back against the lumpy couch with a dramatic moan, throwing his hand across his forehead. “Let me believe I’m still a rockin’ 25 year old twink.”

“Ew, you couldn’t fucking pay me to want to go back to my twenties,” Alin gags. “God I was so stupid then. And so were you, idiot”

“You’re still stupid now.”

“Shut up.” Alin smirks at the wheeze Faustus makes when he jabs his elbow into his ribs. “‘Sides. Can’t run from this forever, man. Even if what’s waiting for you isn’t pretty you, you have to face that ugliness at some point.”

Faustus physically winces at the sharp, unpleasant turn the conversation takes. What lies back home looms in the shadowy recesses in his mind and threatens to overtake him if he gives it even an inch.

Anxiety seizes his throat and stiffens his spin. Alin doesn’t push it when Faustus’s mouth clamps shut and instead pulls out his phone silently.

“I feel like eating some ramen with,” Alin hums thoughtfully. “With a fried pork cutlet and sweet corn.”

Across the room Cherry drops their bright green, banana print makeup bag. Mascara tubes and lipsticks roll out and eyeshadow palettes clatter noisily to the floor. Oliver immediatey dives after them.

“Oh shit sorry Liv,” Cherry pats his back distractedly. “But fuck! That sounds so good, I want in on this!”

Apparently the promise of ramen is more interesting than getting their stuff as Cherry shoves their way between Faustus and Alin. Both Faustus and Alin grunt out curses, to which Cherry only grins and laughs cheerfully at, and after readjusting themselves they finally settle into a comfortable mass. Cherry ends up half sitting on Alin’s lap, their arms flung around his torso, with Faustus pressed up close against their slender back to peer over their shoulder at Alin’s phone.

Once all of Cherry’s things - and then all of Faustus’s and Alin’s things - are put away into their respective bags, Oliver joins them on the couch, slotting in on Alin’s other side despite the tight squeeze. 

“You know I could have just read out the menu, or better yet, you fuckers could have looked at this on your own damn phones.” Alin grumps.

“My phone is dead.” Faustus grins.

“Mine is in my bag and the menu was already open on yours!” Cherry chimes in.

Oliver leans forward and rests his chin on Alin’s shoulder. “I just wanted to cuddle.”

Alin groans, yet makes no effort to push any of them away. 

Huddled together like this, Faustus finds it’s all too easy to ignore the fact that this is the last time they’ll be doing this together - at least like this - for a long time. He can pretend that there’s another show to look forward to, that once they clamber up later that night onto the tour bus that they’ll be headed over to the next town, to the next gig, and maybe next time they can argue over whether they order out fried plantains and black beans or find the closest greasy burger joint and debate which horrible slasher fic monster was hottest over a huge order of fries. 

Miles away from Glacier’s Peak, well past the vibrant coastal cities and the sleepy towns, out on the murky black waters of the Volksen Sea, dark gray storm clouds roll over the shuddering, icy waves.


End file.
